


and i run from wolves

by dansunedisco



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alliances, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Humor, Kidnapping, Soulmates, Trauma, Werewolf Bellamy, Werewolves, Witch Clarke, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 04:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6889933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They weave around each other throughout the store, and share smiles each time they pass one another. It’s cute, Clarke thinks. Very rom-com, but in a YA novel kind of way. She’s a witch. He’s a werewolf. Could it be any more obvious?</i>
</p><p>Or: Bellamy is the alpha of his werewolf pack, and Clarke is something like coven royalty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i run from wolves

**Author's Note:**

> i set out to write a southern gothic witch/werewolf bellarke fic and this is as close as i got lmao (AKA it’s not very southern gothic at all oops)

“Okay,” Bellamy says. “We agree to your terms.”

Clarke tries to school her shock into a calm, cool facade; one that, by the lingering smirk on Bellamy’s lips, she is _not_ pulling off.

“That’s it,” she says. It’s a dull non-question. “You agree. No counter, no terms of your own.”

“Nope,” he replies. “Is that all?” He taps his index finger on the table that separates them—a staccato _tap-tap-TAP_ —and the chair legs screech against the floorboards as he stands. In any other circumstance, Clarke would take it as a power play. Tonight, she doesn’t.

She has a million rebuttals and arguments lined up on her tongue, each one carefully rehearsed and planned. Not needing to use a single one has her tongue-tied. Perhaps for the best. She stands too, after a moment, and extends her hand. Bellamy Blake has never given up easily, not as long as he’s been around, and acquiescing now could be a sneaky ploy to tip her off-balance. But there’s an honesty about him she trusts. She doesn’t _know_ him, but she trusts him. Theoretically. Against all good judgment and everything she’s ever been taught, but she does.

“That’s all,” she says firmly. There’s not much more she can do than seal the deal.

Bellamy looks at her, then her hand. She can’t even begin to decipher the look on his face, but he shakes her hand regardless, and that’s that: For the first time since the very, very beginning, the witches and werewolves of Arkadia find themselves in a truce.

He drops her hand. “Is it wrong of me to admit I’m waiting for some ominous thunder to roll in?”

She tries not to smile. This is supposed to be a serious moment, but, hell, she’s tempted to snap her fingers and call on the winds. “Next time we meet,” she says instead, “I’ll make sure it hits right on cue.”

After she says it, she realizes it _could_ be taken as a threat. Like, ‘I’m a witch and I’ll bring my witchy weapons’ or whatever, but he doesn’t leap across the room and tear her throat out, so— she has that going for her. _Positive thoughts. Think positive thoughts._

“Until next time,” Bellamy agrees.

It’s not until after he leaves that Clarke realizes exactly how high the tension got inside the room. As soon as he steps outside, it shatters like glass. Monty and Harper both visibly wilt against one another, and they eye Clarke like she’s lost her damn mind.

“You were flirting with him,” Monty says. It’s not an accusation, exactly, but his tone errs on bewilderment. “You were _flirting_ with him.”

Clarke goes to protest, but there’s no point in refuting the truth. Bellamy Blake is not what she expected. He’s young, handsome, with dark skin and even darker hair, freckles, and a sense of dry humor she thinks could match her own. Maybe, for a second, she _did_ flirt, but could she be blamed? She has _eyes_. Werewolf or not, he’s exactly her type.

She shrugs. “Chalk it up to adrenaline. C’mon, let’s go.”

They held the meeting on middle ground—a tiny shack by the river that splits the forest of the Arkadian territories in two—and it’s an old habit to skirt around the other way so as not to cross the border into wolf territory. Witches aren’t so touchy about their space (it’s all one world, the supreme being, yadda yadda, so on and so forth), but werewolves notoriously _are_. Before, a toe out of line could mean a death sentence. Now, they don’t have to be so careful. Not anymore.

Still, habit is habit, and she sees Bellamy watching while she crosses the rocks that were once _her_ side. He casts her an amused smirk—something, she’s beginning to think, he probably does a lot. Still, she’s half-tempted to wave, but she refrains. They might be tentative allies, but they’re not friends. Not yet.

He disappears into the trees a blink later, a superhuman blur too fast even for her eyes. Branches tremble in his wake. It is, all told, really, really cool to see in action, and she’s unable to tamp down on the grin that fights its way onto her face.

“Cool,” she says. Not to anyone in particular, of course, but she knows the werewolves can hear her. Even from across the river through the rushing of the rapids.

Bellamy brought with him two others; his sister, and his second. Miller winks out between the trees almost as soon as Bellamy does, but Octavia—she glares at Clarke for a tense moment, her irises flaring up into a piercing, molten gold, and then she’s gone, too.

“That wasn’t creepy at all,” Monty says, and Harper sighs, “Better get used to it.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Clarke says. Oh, is she ever.

 

* * *

 

The terms of the treaty are simple. The witches and werewolves of Arkadia will become allies. Meaning: the territories that were singularly separated will be integrated; everyone can move freely; a ‘no harm’ agreement is promised across the board; and, if called upon, both sides would answer the others’ call for backup. Simple treaty concepts. And it’s a good deal for all parties involved, really. A great deal.

With the world being kind of a global economy, it was getting to be frustrating—at least in Clarke’s eyes—to constantly worry about her next step, her next move. And how she couldn’t venture into the awesome antique bookstore she’s been eyeing for _ever_ because it was on the _other_ side of town.

It was Kane who came up with the idea to ask the werewolves if they wanted to join forces. For the greater good, or whatever.

Clarke secretly thinks it’s because everyone can agree to hate Cage Wallace: vampire and all around douchebag. So much of one, in fact, that the oldest Arkadian rivalry was willing to look past a century’s worth of inter-magic prejudice to flip him the bird.

But back to the backup thing.

 

* * *

 

She’s been kidnapped. Well, she _presumes_ she’s been kidnapped. She was minding her own damn business earlier in the day, passed out somewhere in-between, and here she is. In some dark and dingy basement, with the muzzy feel of a sedative itching at the back of her throat.

The situation is—not good. Not the worst pickle she’s been in, but definitely not the best. Being the daughter of the coven’s healer comes with a lot of perks, but being used as bait or leverage was _not_ one of them.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she grumbles, and tugs at the restraints tied tightly around her wrists. Restraints that are very unhelpfully bolted into the dingy cement wall. It’s safe to say that she’s going absolutely nowhere. Her entire left side feels like it’s on pins and needles, so she must’ve been out for a while. She rolls onto her back and wiggles her toes, rotates her ankles, groaning a little as blood makes its way back into her limbs. The least her kidnappers could’ve done was give her a pillow or _something_ : there’s a crick on her neck not even magic can get out.

She surveys the room. There’s enough light coming through the far window that she can make out the silvery outline of a chair, but her makeshift prison is otherwise spartan. It would be too much to ask for her kidnappers to be considerate enough to leave a knife or other sharp object within reach, wouldn’t it? Either no one knows she’s gone yet—despite her mother’s insistence, she _is_ an adult who requires no (well, very little) supervision—or someone powerful enough was able to cast a masking spell on her. She doesn’t feel any magic, but the lack of residual spellmaking doesn’t discount it either.

She sighs, and looks at the twine keeping her hands together. Unfortunately, half of witching is in the fingers and wrists, and she needs her digits to do the spells she’s dubbed ‘shock and awe’. She sucks her teeth. Better get to chewing.

 

* * *

 

Octavia strolls into Bellamy’s study, bites into an apple, and says, “The witch princess got kidnapped.”

He blinks up from his book. “What?” he asks, though he doesn’t really need the words repeated. He heard them just fine the first time around. It was just that Octavia spoke them so _nonchalantly_ he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of them. As if ‘oh, hey, we’re out of milk’ is on the same plane as Clarke Griffin getting kidnapped. Something fierce and instinctual coils in his stomach; his nails itch to grow into claws. His control is impeccable, but restraint is the last thing on his mind now.

She rolls her eyes. “You look like a kicked puppy.”

“Details, O. Give me details.”

“I don’t know, I just heard that Kane put out an APB on her,” she says, throwing her hands up. “It’s her monthly witch-related grudge kidnapping or whatever and he’s asking for the pack’s help to sniff her out.”

“Is this funny to you?”

“A little,” she says, but frowns like she’s maybe reconsidering her previous stance.

Bellamy frowns too. The problem with werewolves—especially born werewolves—is that they can’t truly sympathize with human pain and the fear that comes with it. Yes, when their bones break it hurts, but it only takes a handful of seconds to mend. A lot of things that scare humans don’t phase werewolves, by the virtue of them simply _being_ a werewolf. Bellamy can jump off a very tall building and live. He can do a lot of foolish, painful things, and come out the other end no worse for wear. He knows for a fact that sometimes that inability to sympathize washes away their ability to empathize too. Sometimes they need to be reminded.

“She’s human, O,” he says slowly. “She doesn’t heal like us. What if they hurt her?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You _like_ her. Like, you really like her.”

“Don’t change the subject. I don’t even know her.”

“But you’re _worried_ about her. You don’t worry about anyone that’s not pack.”

“I don’t have time to argue,” he says, and ignores Octavia’s _who’s changing the subject now_ look. “Let’s get a search party going.”

His sister grins at him, canines a little pointier than they were before. Bellamy sometimes thinks if Octavia weren’t ever a wolf, she would still be the adrenaline-junkie she is now.

“Yeah, let’s go save your girlfriend,” she says, and ducks around his arm when he reaches for her. Clarke is— _not_ his girlfriend, and thinking anything else while she’s _kidnapped_ is a total creeper move. He rolls his shoulders back. Time to get down to business.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s made some serious progress on fraying the rope when she hears footsteps. She tugs and twists with all her might; it’s not enough. One tiny pinky wiggle could maybe be enough to sweep an assailant off their feet, but she doesn’t want to show her hand too soon (no pun intended). Instead, she flops back in an approximation of how she woke up, tucks her hands close to her chest; steadies her breath. _Seriously,_ she thinks wildly, _this is the worst way to spend a Friday night_.

The door creaks open. A set of boots or two clomp in.

“Jesus Christ,” someone says, their voice nasally and totally like a kidnapping asshole’s. “How much of that shit did you give her?”

“I don’t know? Enough, clearly,” someone else replies. They, too, sound like a kidnapping asshole. “Think she’s dead?”

Boots shuffle closer. A light blinks on. It’s faint enough Clarke thinks it must be a cell phone backlight.

“She—she doesn’t look like she’s breathing,” Asshole #1 says. Boots shuffle closer. “I _told_ you we shouldn’t us—”

“Shh! _Shh!_ You hear that?” Asshole #2 whispers suddenly.

Clarke peeks her eyes open. Her back is turned to the room, so she can’t see anything but the wall, but she heard something too. A rustling that, considering their wooded location, is probably nothing more than a deer or a rabbit. But, god, she hopes it’s something, _someone,_ a thousand times more lethal.

The wall smashes open. Clarke screams, the kidnapping assholes scream, and whoever went through that wall like the Kool-Aid man lets out a blood curdling roar. Clarke twists around as much as her restraints will let her, and sucks in a surprised breath—“Bellamy!”

Moonlight surrounds him like a halo, dust from the crumbling wall floating through the air, and his eyes—blood red—shine like two rubies in the dark. It’s a devastating entrance, and Clarke is so, _so_ happy to see that it’s him. Her kidnappers, of course, don’t seem to share the same sentiment. They book it out of the shack. Bellamy makes no move to stop them. He rushes to Clarke’s side.

“Clarke,” he says, and she chokes on a grateful sob.

“I knew it would be you,” she admits, blushing faintly at the admission, but it’s the truth. “I don’t know why, but — but I _knew_ it was you.” She can’t put the feeling into words, the visceral tug in her bones, her skin, that’s telling her she will be okay: he came for her; he won’t leave her.

“Hey, it’s okay. I got you now,” he says gently, and uses his index claw to cut through the rest of the rope. He smiles faintly. “Chewing your way out?”

“I have very strong teeth. Took a two grand co-pay and two years to get my upper crowding under control,” she says. She feels _delirious_ ; loose and hazy—a heady mixture of fear and relief pumping through her veins. She needs to hold onto Bellamy’s arm to stand all the way up. Her legs shake badly, bad enough she needs to lean heavily into Bellamy’s side as they walk out. “Where’s everyone else?”

“There’s a warding spell a mile out.”

“But… you’re here.”

He shrugs. “Must’ve been for witches only. I guess whoever did this didn’t get the memo we’re cool now.”

“Lucky me.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” he says quietly. He squeezes her arm. “So, your mom’s pretty worried and would really like to see you. Would I be a total asshole if I carried you?”

“Since you’re asking nicely… no. I’d appreciate it, actually. My legs are about to give out.”

Bellamy scoops her up like she weighs as much as a pillow. She expects him to book it, but he doesn’t; just takes a brisk walk into the woods and far, far away from the shack he nearly bulldozed through. She glances back at it with a shudder, and buries into Bellamy’s chest. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t be cuddling so openly, with a veritable stranger no less, but the tactile comfort is doing a lot to bring her down right now. The fact that it’s Bellamy certainly doesn’t hurt. He’s warm, and _safe_.

By the time Bellamy reaches the end of the wards, Clarke’s almost passed out in his arms. The gentle sway and the heat of his body is calming, and she’s nodded off more times than she can count.

Eventually, she’s tilted back onto her feet, and she deals with the round of happy hugs, her mother’s worried hands on her cheeks. The entire coven came out to see her home safely, she soon realizes. It’s honestly overwhelming. All she wants to do is go home and crawl under her covers, but she can’t, not just yet. She endures the attention, because she has to, and she looks for Bellamy’s comforting presence the entire time. Every time she checks, he’s there.

When the fuzz of shock finally lifts, she sees that Bellamy’s entire pack is here too. Miller is leaned up against a tree, with Monty slowly approaching from the left. There’s Lincoln with Octavia. Maya and Jasper smiling shyly at one another. Harper and Monroe standing guard over the two kidnappers, cracking their knuckles in a show that makes Clarke smile. The witches and werewolves are intermingling like it’s just another night. A new normal they’ve embraced. Coming together to help her. The sentiment is clear: for better or worse, they’re a team now. Her eyes prick with tears. She quickly knuckles them away with a sniff, and resolves to thank them all when she’s emotionally fortified.

“You okay?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke wants to say something like _now that you’re here_ , but that’s not true. He’s been by her side the entire time, and she’s just barely holding on. But something tells her that his presence is literally the only reason she’s not completely falling apart right now, and she doesn’t quite know why. “No,” she admits, “but I will be. Thanks. For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me for any of this. You really don’t.”

Before she can reply, Kane launches into a vigorous speech about unity and friendship and strength, but Clarke doesn’t hear it. Instead, she leans into Bellamy. She sighs when his arm hesitantly wraps around her shoulders, content.

 

* * *

 

“Do you have a minute?”

Bellamy sighs. With Kane, does he have a choice? “If it can wait until tomorrow…” It’s late, and he’d rather sleep.

“It could,” but Kane pulls him off to the side anyway. He gives Bellamy a significant look. “Those wards. They weren’t just for witches.”

“Are you—”

“I’m sure. Hannah analyzed the spell, and… yes, it should have prevented anyone from breaking through.”

 _But I broke through_ , Bellamy thinks. Suddenly, he understands why Kane didn’t want to wait until later. “I’m an alpha,” he offers, but, no, that can’t be the answer. As much as he’s wary of Marcus Kane, the man is smart; smart enough to factor that into the equation without prompting. “Why are you telling me this?”

Kane’s eyes cut over, to where Clarke is standing next to her mother. “Let’s see this both ways: either someone wanted to let you—and only you—through to Clarke… or they failed to factor in another variable.”

“Which way do you see it?”

“Tell me, Bellamy: Do you believe in coincidence?”

Kidnapping Clarke so soon after the treaty—it could’ve been planned for weeks, months, before the alliance, or it could’ve been a direct retaliation: _We don’t like you messing with the status quo._ Either way, it was all too easy. It felt like a test. A poke with a stick; a warning for bigger, worse things to come. “No,” he says, “I really, really don’t.”

“Then I’m asking you to look out for her, just until we’ve parsed this out. The vampires aren’t happy with us, but—this isn’t their MO. Abby’s worried. _I’m_ worried.”

 _Keep her in the dark_ , is the hidden message. It doesn’t sit well with him. He would want to know, if it were him. “If she’s a player in whatever grudge match is coming, she needs to know.”

“Give us a week. One week.”

He scrubs his mouth, uncomfortable. “One week, Kane. One week, and I tell her.”

 

* * *

 

“He freakin’ punched through a cement wall to get to you.”

Clarke tosses her pillow at Wells, her childhood best friend and the one who’s had to listen to her skirt around the Bellamy issue since there _was_ a Bellamy issue. The mild crush that blossomed when they shook hands at the treaty talk exploded at the same time that wall did, and she’s drowning in pent up emotions and denial. “He—okay, well. Yeah, he _did_ , technically, but that’s what he does. He’s got super strength.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t there, Clarke. When we all met up to start the search... it was like—he looked like he’d do anything for you.”

“And in that moment, I totally appreciated his dedication to the treaty.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“He _likes_ you, Clarke.”

“He doesn’t know me!”

“He _wants_ to get to know you.”

She groans into her hands. There’s a tiny voice in the back of her mind that’s nudging her to accept Wells’ words as true. Bellamy stuck around the rest of the night when he really didn’t have any obligation—beyond, maybe, being a decent person—to do so. All she knows is that he caught her scent, and, from the retelling, he left his pack in the dust to chase it. Of course, it would be pretty damn strategic to get on the good side of your allies, but Clarke knows that’s not the case. It _can’t_ be the case. Bellamy Blake, as fierce and stubborn as he’s known to be, he’s loyal too. And in a way, she supposes, she’s a part of his pack now. A technical outlier, but she’s in it all the same. “Can’t we talk about something that actually _matters_?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know... maybe the poli-magical strains that led to my kidnapping in the first place?”

“Because that’s heavy stuff, and I think talking about boys—or girls—is more your speed tonight. I can braid your hair while we do that. I’ve been meaning to practice.”

She flips onto her stomach. Though Clarke thinks talking politics is perfectly serviceable no matter the circumstances, she concedes he has a point. “Two can play this game,” she says, relishing in the mildly horrified glint that flickers in Wells’ eyes. “I _totally_ want to talk about girls tonight, you’re _so_ right.” She pats the bed; _join me._ “So. When are you gonna ask Raven out?”

 

* * *

 

Clarke goes to that antique bookstore a week after her most recent kidnapping incident; coincidentally, also the earliest she could convince her mother that _yes_ , a tracking rune in her necklace would have to be enough. She wasn’t going to languish at home for the rest of her life, nor would she burden someone to be her keeper for the rest of theirs.

She enters the store with a small, happy sigh, and rounds the corner to see the familiar slope of shoulders, the curl of black hair. She’s already smiling when Bellamy turns around with a smile of his own.

“Hey,” she says, pleasantly surprised. The conversation she had with Wells swims its way up to the forefront of her mind, and she tries her best to play it cool. Super cool. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a bookstore, so—”

“You’re here to be a jackass, got it.” She gives him a tiny salute, which he returns with what she’s come to regard as his trademark smirk, and slinks off between the racks.

He doesn’t stop her, but he doesn’t have to. They weave around each other throughout the store, and share smiles each time they pass one another. It’s _cute_ , Clarke thinks. Very rom-com, but in a YA novel kind of way. She’s a witch. He’s a werewolf. Could it be any more obvious? Still, there’s something else at play here. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. She’s had crushes before; she’s pretty sure she’s been in _love_ before. But gravity has nothing on the pull she feels towards Bellamy Blake. It’s so bad that she barely pays attention while she picks her books.

“What do you got there?” he asks, when they finally meet at the cashier.

She hugs the books to her chest. Honestly? She has no clue. “You gotta join my book club to find out,” she says instead, because admitting she grabbed whatever was in front of her because his perfect _hair_ distracted her was—just, _no._

“A book club?”

“Yeah, I literally just started it. I make awesome cucumber sandwiches, so it’s a natural progression.” She closes her eyes for a second, a breath. _You’re an adult, Clarke_ , she thinks. _Just ask him out._ “Or—do you want to hang out sometime?”

Something softens in his expression, and the tightness in her stomach uncoils. “You busy after this?” he asks, and she’s not expecting it to be _so soon_ , but still: “No, not at all.”

 

 

 

“Don’t get a big head over this, but you might just be the best date I’ve ever had.” She has an icecream cone in one hand, books in the other. She walked the whole way here, _“For the novelty of it,”_ she explained, when Bellamy offered to walk her to a car she didn’t have to drop off her purchases. The way his eyebrows lifted was charming; shocked, because the witch-side of town was not a short ways. Either way, she wouldn’t let him carry her books. But she _did_ let him buy her the cone.

He grins at her, clearly pleased with himself despite her warning. “Bet you say that to all the werewolves.”

They stop by a bench along the riverwalk. It’s gorgeous, near sunset. An old pontoon putters along the water, and Bellamy raises a casual hand—a polite _hey, hello_ —to its occupants. She can smell the mud on the banks, the clean, sweet scent of grass. Everything is cast in a hazy, orange glow. It’s perfect. It doesn’t feel like it should be; it’s almost a perfect mirror to the day she was taken, but sitting next to Bellamy—she’s steady.

Bellamy crunches the last bite of his cone, swallows. “Can I ask you a question?”

She nods.

“Why did Kane send you?”

That isn’t the question she’s expecting, but it’s a fair one. Bellamy is young—very young to be an alpha, especially for the size of his pack. There’s a hierarchy, of course, but he wears the executive hat. He’s the one that matters, doles out the orders. The coven, on the other hand, has adults at the helm. In Bellamy’s eyes, sending a group of barely legals to negotiate a treatise between the two factions—well, she’s just surprised he wasn’t completely dismissive when she showed up at that little river shack to tango.

“Kane’s a diplomat,” she says judiciously. “Harper, Monty, and I are all supposed to ascend in the coven, and… I guess he was trying to not be intimidating. Did it work?” She tries to be teasing, but that wobble in her voice—she feels like it underlines her age, her uncertainty, and maybe _that’s_ what Kane was going for in the first place. Someone for Bellamy to trust. Bet Kane didn’t foresee them where they are now, where they’re going.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, “I’m being stupid. Maybe this was—”

He touches her hand, and they both gasp. Whatever she was going to say gets lost in the buzz of electricity sparking in her fingertips; his skin on hers. She lifts her eyes to his, sees the same slack-jawed expression mirroring her own. _This can’t be normal._ But it _felt_ right.

“Is that—?” he asks at the same time she murmurs, “Do you—?” The urge to kiss him drops over her like a spell then; the sweetest kind. She leans into him and sees him inching forward, too, right before her eyes flutter close. When their lips touch, the air shivers around them. Her skin tightens. Goosebumps spring up his arm where her thumb strokes up and down. It feels like magic. They stay kissing, there on the park bench, until the orange haze in the sky bleeds to purple, peppered with stars.

 

* * *

 

He realizes what’s happening too late to stop it. Though, in hindsight, he’s not sure he could’ve, even if he had all the puzzle pieces fitted together from the start. Kane asked him if he believed in coincidence. He never asked if Bellamy believed in fate.

It happens like this:

“I have a theory,” Octavia says. “It’s gonna sound totally crazy, but—promise to hear me out before you go ballistic.”

It’s been three days since Clarke’s kidnapping. If he’s being honest, he’s thought of very little else since. He’s two seconds away from combusting these days. He could use a good distraction. Still, “My promise is tentative.”

She takes a deep breath. “I think Clarke’s your mate.”

The words make his stomach plummet and his face heat up, because— _what?_ “Have you been reading those were-romances again?”

“For the last time, that phase is _behind me_ , okay?” she snaps, crosses her arms with a huff; _don’t bring it up again._ “Look, you’ve been... different since you met her—”

“What, is helping someone a crime now? Being happy?”

“Protective,” she steamrolls over him, “you were the only one who was able to catch her scent that night, and I’ve _never_ seen you act the way you did when you caught it, Bell. Never. And I _heard_ what Kane told you, okay? The wards should’ve worked on all of us. But it didn’t. Not for you.”

“I don’t—” _have time for this, I don’t need you pulling my leg_ , but it clicks into place a beat later: the draw he’s felt towards Clarke from their first meeting; punching through a wall when there was a perfectly fine door to use; the burn under his skin whenever he thinks about her. Breaking a spell that shouldn’t have been able to break. Classic, textbook signs. _Oh,_ “fuck.”

Octavia flicks him in the forehead. “Sounds about right.”

 

* * *

 

“Wait, that’s a real thing?” is Clarke’s response to the atomic bomb Bellamy drops: _there’s a weird biological-magical imperative that binds us together, I realized it a few days ago and didn’t tell you right away because I’m an asshole. Also, I think someone’s going to use that morsel of information to wreck havoc on the pack and the coven. Again, information I withheld from you, but this time because_ Kane’s _an asshole; sorry._

He drops his head into his hands. “It’s not—it’s not, like, permanent or binding or anything. We’re not werewolf-married, or whatever Octavia calls it. It’s kind of nature’s way of saying: hey, this person would be pretty good for you.”

“I mean, that’s vaguely normal. Biologically speaking.” She leans into him. “So… do you agree?”

He lifts his head. She’s smiling at him, like this situation is a hundred kinds of hilarious; which, in reality, it kind of is. Events outside of their control brought them together, and it’s exactly as nature intended. How often does that happen? “I like you, Clarke,” he says, and he knows it’s not just biology talking, here. She’s beautiful, a little mean, and smart. He really likes her. “You should be pissed at me. Livid. I should’ve told you—”

She kisses him, turns her face to nose against his cheek. _Scent-marks_ him. He groans helplessly, and laces their fingers together. He feels solid; whole. “I _am_ mad,” she says, “because I’m an adult, and keeping me out of the loop to ‘spare me’ is literally the dumbest concept ever, but. I’d rather get to work. Grudges are lame.”

“Okay,” he says, after a long moment. “Alright, okay.”

 

* * *

 

They go to Raven.

She says, “I’m gonna Nancy Drew the _fuck_ out of this,” and boy, does she. She drags out a whiteboard from under her work desk, uncaps a marker with her teeth, and proceeds to write in a shorthand neither Clarke and Bellamy can decipher. Halfway through she looks over her shoulder and says, “I’m actually really flattered you two got your shit together and came to me.”

Clarke and Bellamy exchange looks; _she’s not talking about ME._

“The first thing we need to do,” Raven says, “is figure out who owns that shack—”

“I can go down to city hall,” Clarke offers. “Get the deed, find out who’s paying property tax on the land.”

“Bam, cool. Next, we need to see who hired those two goons, who paid them—I’ll take point on that,” she says, swivels around in her chair and flicks her laptop lid open. “It really shouldn’t be _too_ hard to look at their bank statements. Here’s to hoping those assholes weren’t paid in cash.”

Bellamy hides a smile behind his fist. “What do you need me to do?”

She narrows her eyes, fingers poised over the keyboard. “Someone else should _probably_ know what we’re doing.” It’s altogether too clear who this _someone else_ needs to be.

“Have fun,” Clarke says, later. She pecks him on the cheek when they part ways; her to bureaucracy, and him to an even worse fate: Kane.

 

* * *

 

“Ley lines,” Raven gasps, shaking the map in her hands so hard it crumples. “Fuckin’ _ley lines_ , of course!”

Clarke’s head pops up from the pillow that is her forearms. It’s been over 72 hours since they started peeling apart the onion that is the world they live in, and it’s been slow going; the breaks stopped coming after Clarke got the map from city hall, but, “You got a lead?”

“I think I do, okay—look,” she turns the map around, right-side up to Clarke’s perspective, “these points here and here,” she slides her fingers between two spots, “the strongest telluric currents in Arkadia converge between them. When you got kidnapped it was—”

Clarke looks. She really _looks_ , and everything tumbles into a sharp, sick focus. She puts her hand down on the map. “The plot was purchased six months ago,” she says, the date jumping forward in her mind. She’s back in the clerk’s office, jotting down notes; tucking unremarkable factoids away for later use. Her gaze flicks up, and she sees the tumblers churning away in Raven’s brilliant brain too.

“Six months. Way before the treaty was an idea swimming around in Kane’s perfectly coiffed hair.” Raven pauses. “We’ve been looking at this all wrong. We assumed whoever did this wanted to use whatever’s going on between you and Bellamy against us, but that’s impossible. Literally impossible.” She tilts her head. “What was the moon cycle that night?”

Hundreds of spells jump out at Clarke; all of them involving telluric currents. She looks down at her hands, a half-formed idea tingling at the back of her neck. “What if—?”

 

* * *

 

 

They find a loose thread, and tug and tug—

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out the coven-pack alliance threw the biggest ever wrench in the plans of the fairy queen in the north.

“I _almost_ feel bad for her,” Octavia says, a month after they foiled the ice queen’s (poorly timed) plot. “Like, what crappy luck.”

“I know, right? All she wanted was to drain my blood, break the coven’s ties to the land, overthrow the werewolves, and turn Arkadia into a land of _eternal winter_.” Clarke shrugs. “She clearly got the bad end of the deal, here.”

Raven slings her arm around Wells’ shoulders and sways with him; side to side. “Either way: it’s over.” _We’re okay_.

When it’s a particularly brisk day, Clarke can feel the lingering flash of frostbite around her wrists, the shiver of her life-force magic draining back into the earth; the bite of panic because maybe, just maybe, their counter won’t work—but it _is_ over, and they all got through it; _together._

 

 

 

Bellamy throws a get-together after the win, and the gatherings quickly become a tradition. In July, it’s a barbeque in the vast backyard behind his pack’s home. Miller’s on the grill, wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron Monty wrangled onto him, and he’s distracted enough by the attention that he burns the first round of burgers. Clarke can smell it all the way down to the river. She wrinkles her nose and tucks into Bellamy’s side, “How is that not bothering you?”

“I’m used to it.”

“Miller burning food or—?”

“Blocking out foul, overwhelming odors,” he taps his nose, “otherwise I’d probably lose my mind from sensory overload. That, and Miller’s socks after a long day? Gross.”

“I could’ve gone my entire life without thinking about his feet,” she says, shaking her head a little. Bellamy’s answering grin is infectious, and something inside of her softens at the way he looks at her: like she’s the only one he can see. It’s strange to think that they’ve only been together a short few months, because she feels like she’s been by his side for much, much longer. “Must be that soulmate thing we’ve got going on,” he said, when she told him as much weeks ago. She leans against him, into his warmth and his strength, and closes her eyes; she can hear the birds in the forest, the whispering of the trees. The forest is tranquil; and so is she.


End file.
